


Longing

by Zai42



Series: Gore/Kinktober Prompts [21]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 20:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Peter could steal Martin away, but he is a consummate professional.Prompt: Public Sex





	Longing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/gifts).



He could seduce Martin Blackwood, he thinks. He's so alone, with the Archivist gone, Peter thinks he could pluck him over to his side with barely any resistance at all; just the surface tension of water, not enough to really matter except to bugs and certain species of lizard.

  
The metaphor's gotten away from him. The point is, Peter Lukas has such a terrible soft spot for the lonely hearts of the world, and Martin Blackwood's heart is so, so lonely.

  
But he won't, for now. For now he will resist the temptation to press against Martin like the fog to a distant horizon, because Elias would fuss, and because really, if he's going to be heading the Magnus Institute, he might as well do it right. So perhaps the halls feel a little quieter, a little colder, but Peter restrains himself to that, rather than actively tipping Martin out of his delicate balancing act.

  
But, well, he is the head of the Magnus Institute, now, isn't he? So a little watching won't hurt anyone.

  
The world he walks through is silent and cold and foggy, but if Peter focuses, he can _almost_ make out Martin's presence. It's shadowy, indistinct, and if Peter reached out, his fingers would pass through it as if Martin were no more than smoke. It's lonely. It _hurts,_ in that nostalgic, lung-squeezing kind of way, when you think of a friend you haven't seen in years. Peter sighs languidly, drapes himself in the chair Martin is sitting in in the real world, and drags a hand over his cock through his clothes.

  
Martin is reading a statement, because what else would poor little Martin be doing with his time? His voice rises and falls, distant, like listening to a conversation through thin walls. He must miss his Archivist so dearly. Peter could comfort him, if it weren't for the veil keeping them apart. Instead he tilts his head back, hooks a leg over the arm of the chair, presses hard at his straining prick.

  
He wonders if Martin has been listening to old tapes, clinging to the Archivist's voice like a light on the dark sea, like it would save him from the gaping maw below him. Martin's voice isn't exactly the same, but something of the saturation is similar, as if Martin dips into the same space as the Archivist would, even if he doesn't quite dive as deep. The thought delights Peter, that even wrapped in the same magic as his Archivist, Martin will never quite reach the same depths; there will always be fathoms between them.

  
Peter unzips he fly and wishes he'd thought to bring lube. Next time.

  
Martin's voice washes over him, indistinct and vague, and Peter rides the waves of it, slow and unhurried. He comes while Martin gives his final thoughts, his voice slowly returning to its usual sad timbre, and Peter sinks into his seat with a long, contented sigh, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him. He can tell Martin mentions his Archivist, though he can't make out the words; just the longing in his tone makes Peter's stomach swoop. He lazily licks his fingers clean as the tape recorder clicks off, as Martin's shadow lingers a moment at the desk then passes through Peter on his way out the door.

  
Peter stretches indulgently, thinks of ships passing in the night, and puts himself together before materializing in the office, still draped in Martin's chair. It's empty now. Except for Peter, and he isn't much of an exception, when it comes to emptiness.

  
Martin's notes are spread over the table, his handwriting cramped and neat. Peter flicks through them absently, then pauses as something scrawled in red catches his eye. He reads it, eyebrows vanishing into his hairline, mouth twitching into a pleased, feral smile.

  
_You could ask, next time._


End file.
